


Eutychus

by GrenadeFestival



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Resurrection, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrenadeFestival/pseuds/GrenadeFestival
Summary: Someone from the past lands on Tim's doorstep two years after the events of Marble Hornets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you read any amount of fanfic in this fandom, you'll notice how many fics there are where Jay comes back from the dead in one form or another. I love those fics because Jay is my son, but I've noticed that no one ever explores what would happen if it wasn't Jay who came back but someone else. I'm a sucker for Brim, and I'm totally NOT avoiding working through my writers block on my other two MH fics, so I decided to explore that idea with a little one shot. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. the title is pronounced "yoo-ti-kus" in case anyone is wondering

The air outside is frigid and damp. Thin droplets of water still cling to the edges of the roof, unable to fall to the damp earth below. A fresh scent rises up from the grass, the smell of air untainted by the thick, warm humidity that will later settle over the neighborhood as the sun rises. Beyond the porch, streaks of pale yellow light reflect off the decaying road, providing just enough light for Tim to see the slumped figure in his yard. 

It gives him pause, and his heart rate picks up. He puts the pack of cigarettes in his hand back in his pocket and takes a cautious step forward. The porch creaks, a soft sound which feels more like a gunshot in the silence. Tim freezes as the figure stirs. As the man pushes himself onto his hands and knees, he catches more of the dim light. The arm and side of his hoodie are damp and stained with mud, but it’s not enough to hide the faint yellow color of the fabric. 

For a moment, no sound seems to reach Tim’s ears save for the harsh pounding of his own pulse. He opens his mouth, and a word catches in his throat. Stalling. Sputtering. Dying out. He can’t move. The man in the yard retches. It’s an awful, primal sound, as if he too has something trapped within him. Something heavy. Something deep-set, like a parasite in his chest. After a moment he coughs up a dark fluid and spits it into the grass, gasping for breath. 

Tim forces his other foot forward, scraping his shoe against the splintering wood. As the man wipes his mouth, he looks up. Their eyes lock. Tim feels a tug in his gut, urging him to run. Away from him. Towards him. He can’t decide. His feet remain rooted to the spot. The man’s hood, already precariously set on his head, falls back. The haggard face beneath doesn’t flinch. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. 

“Tim?” 

The ice in Tim’s chest seems to shatter. 

“How are you here,” he whispers, “How are you here, how are you  _ alive?!”  _

Brian raises himself onto one knee and attempts to stand, but he falters. 

“Hey, Tim, hang on a second,” he says. 

“Tell me how you’re here. Tell me  _ right. Now.” _

“I don’t know. Tim, please, I don’t know,” Brian says, sinking back to his knees, eyes meeting the ground. 

“You think you can just turn up like this after two years?!” Tim shouts, “Two years of dead silence, no monsters, no cameras, two years of trying to forget any of this ever happened, and you think you can just drop yourself off on my doorstep?!” 

“No, no, I didn’t...I don’t know how I-.” 

“How you got here?” Tim interrupts, tears burning in the corners of his eyes, “You don’t remember how you got here, is that it? Alright, well how about everything else, huh? Alex? Jessica?  _ Jay?!  _ Do you remember any of  _ that?!” _

Brian holds a hand to his forehead and grimaces. 

“I...yes...no...I don’t know, Tim, ok, I can’t…” 

Tim takes a breath, trying to quell the rage already crackling in his chest, but to no avail. 

“Then let me refresh your memory,” he spits, “You just spent the last five years of your life hiding behind a mask out in the woods,  _ stalking  _ and  _ torturing  _ people you used to call your friends! You spent the last five years  _ controlling  _ me and forcing me to help you fight that  _ thing  _ at time when I couldn’t even remember my own  _ name!  _ You had every opportunity to get rid of Alex, the guy who spent  _ his  _ last five years trying to  _ kill everyone,  _ and instead you lead me and Jay, the only other people trying to  _ fix  _ this, into a trap that got one of us killed! Does that all sound about right to you?!” 

Brian is silent. He braces both hands against the ground, as if he’s in danger of crumpling any second. Over the city beyond, a flash of light flickers in the clouds. A palpable few seconds pass before a quiet boom of thunder echoes down the street. Tim takes a deep breath, fighting past the hard knot in his throat. He wants to scream at Brian again, force him to answer, but he doesn’t. Any energy he had left is gone, leaving only a fizzling hole in his chest. 

“I…” Brian breathes, “I can’t remember any of that.” 

“Do you think I’m lying?” 

“No. I don’t.” 

Brian takes a deep breath, wincing slightly at the movement. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t remember...I can’t remember details anymore, everything is a blur, but...I remember Alex and Jay and you, and I remember just...just  _ hating  _ all of you. I actually wanted...I can’t believe I wanted to  _ hurt  _ any of you and I...You didn’t deserve that, Tim, I just…” 

His voice catches, and he looks away. Tim expected excuses. Blame shifted onto someone else. Anyone else. He expected bargaining, even. Pleading for mercy. Not grief. Not acceptance. 

“Tim, I’m so sorry,” Brian whispers. 

Tim isn’t sure what he can say. Out in the street, the puddles start to ripple again as new rain drops begin to fall. Tim sighs. 

“I guess...um...,” he murmurs, pausing, struggling to find any words at all, “Why don’t you, uh, come in...” 

“I don’t think I can stand,” Brian whispers, still refusing to meet his eyes. He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm. 

Tim doesn’t say anything as he steps out into the drizzle. As he grabs Brian’s arm, he feels a chill run up his arm and down his spine. He expected icey cold, like a corpse, but instead he feels burning heat coming through the thick fabric. Feverish and angry and very, very much alive. He pulls Brian to his feet, and together they trudge through the gathering puddles on Tim’s front walk, up the stairs, and into the meager house Tim has called home for the past year and a half. 

As soon as Brian sits on the couch, he slumps over, his head in his hands. For a second, Tim can’t help but stare at him, waiting for this to end like all his nightmares seem to: with the room around him dissolving into darkness, his own skin burning and cracking, and the air around him bursting into sharp static as he falls further and further and further…

It doesn’t happen. He goes to the kitchen instead. 

He opens a cupboard and stares at the few dishes he owns. A fuzzy feeling creeps into his head and he wonders what he’s supposed to do now. He wonders if he should let Brian stay or make him leave. He wonders if Brian needs water or food first. He wonders if any of his shirts will fit him. He tells himself he’s only thinking about that because of the hoodie. He’s not sure he wants to keep looking at it, dredging up memories he’s tried to leave behind. Eventually he fills a glass up with water and walks back out into the living room. 

“Um, here,” he says, holding it out towards Brian. 

Brian barely looks up, pauses. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“You look like a drowned cat, Brian. The only ‘fine’ you are is fine to put in one of those depressing charity commercials,” Tim says, setting the glass down on the coffee table. 

He expects that to at least get a tiny smile from his old friend, but Brian doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Tim mentally kicks himself for trying to get him to laugh, trying to  _ help  _ him, but that part of him ebbs away as the minutes pass and a new emotion he’d almost forgot he could feel takes over. 

_ He came back. He  _ came back.

* * *

 

As the night marches on, Brian doesn’t speak more than a few words. He refuses to make himself comfortable, refuses to ask for anything. It takes all but Tim grabbing him and throwing him down to get him to at least lay down on the couch. He’s so quiet, Tim almost doesn’t notice when he falls asleep. 

Tim reaches down and touches his hand to Brian’s forehead. He can feel the heat radiating from  his body before his fingers even make contact. He isn’t sure what to do or if it’s even a problem. If he could somehow come back after a fall like that, a fever seems a laughable thing to worry about. Even so, it’s troubling. 

Eventually Tim decides, as midnight comes and goes, that there’s really nothing more that he can do for now. He leaves the glass of water on the table and adds to the collection an apple, a sleeve of crackers, and a clean shirt. Then he retreats to his own room, hoping to get some sleep. For a long time, he doesn’t. 

Hardly any time passes before Tim wakes up again. Strips of sunlight travel across his floor, slow enough that he wouldn’t notice their movement if he didn’t stop to stare at them for several minutes. For a moment, he wants to believe that, despite the distinct lack of nightmarish elements, last night really was a dream. He’s surprised by the pang of disappointment he feels as he thinks further about that possibility. 

He gets up and shrugs off the shirt he slept in, exchanging it for a crumpled button-up on his floor that he’s sure is at least mostly clean. He pulls on a pair of jeans he knows is definitely not as clean. As he opens his bedroom door, his eyes land on the couch, just visible down the short hallway. It’s empty. 

The glass of water is half empty, but otherwise nothing else has been touched. The scene feels painfully familiar, though Tim never expected to be on the other side of it. He can hear Brian’s voice in his head, bright and untouched by age or fear. 

_ “Come on, Tim. You need to eat  _ something.  _ When was the last time you actually had a meal?”  _

Tim sighs and waves the memory away. He turns out towards the kitchen and the rest of the house. 

“Brian?” he calls. 

No answer. 

He opens the front door and looks out into the yard, but there’s no sign of Brian there either. As he walks towards the back door, he wonders if Brian ran off. He doesn’t want to care one way or the other, but he can’t completely quell the sadness he feels. The thought of facing isolation all over again. Two more years of loneliness, of keeping people at arm’s length. Trying to keep himself from poisoning anyone else and starting the cycle all over again. It scares him. 

He opens the backdoor, expecting more emptiness, but there he is. Brian sits on the back steps, hunched over with his arms resting on his knees. His hoodie sits next to him in a rumpled heap, leaving him only a t-shirt to fend off the early morning chill. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. 

“Uh, hey,” Tim says, “You feeling any better?” 

“A little,” Brian says, his voice soft and meek with no trace of his old charm or confidence. 

Tim sits next to him and looks over. He looks pale and clammy. The neckline of his shirt is damp with sweat, and pieces of his hair cling to his forehead and temples. His eyes seem vacant, staring out across the yard towards the neighbor’s fence and house beyond. 

“I guess your legs started working again,” Tim observes. 

“Enough to move, yeah.” 

“What are you doing out here?” 

Brian takes a breath and runs his hand through his hair. 

“Got too hot inside.” 

“You, uh...you wanna come in and get something to eat? Can’t imagine you’ve had anything in awhile.” 

“You don’t have to be nice to me, Tim,” Brian murmurs. 

“And you don’t have to torture yourself. I just got you back. I don’t want to watch you starve yourself to death,” Tim says. 

Brian pauses and looks at him. 

“Why in hell would you want me  _ back?  _ I  _ know  _ what I did to you, man,” he says, standing up and walking down the remaining steps, “Last night I honestly couldn’t remember any details, but since I woke up and came out here, I’ve started remembering things again. Not...everything, but enough to know that I really shouldn’t be here. For a lot reasons.” 

Tim stands and takes a breath. For a moment he wants to ask about everything Brian remembers, but he decides against it. He realizes he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want answers that will only lead to more questions. He doesn’t want to relive those memories. Even so, there is one question that nags him. 

“So, do you remember, um, what happened? At the end?” he asks. 

“When I fell? Yeah...I remember that,” Brian says. 

A flush of heat spreads across Tim’s face, and the quiet static that has been humming in his gut since he came outside becomes a roaring wave of nausea. He takes a step back and grabs the stair railing. The memory strikes him like a javelin. He can smell the dust still lingering in his throat, feel the white hot rage pulsing in his ears. There is no sound. No footsteps, no breathing. The only thing he remembers hearing is the echoing  _ slam!  _ of a body hitting the ground. An impersonal moment initially, first seared into his memory by desperation and hatred, now warped and stained by years of grief and self-loathing. He bargained with himself over that moment, compromised and excused, blamed everyone and took it back more than once, but eventually let it go and told himself it wasn't his fault. So he told himself. 

Brian turns and takes a step forward. 

“Tim? Hey Tim, are you alright?” he asks. 

A spark of life creeps back into his voice, but Tim hardly hears it as he sinks back down to the stairs, legs trembling. An icy chill seeps through his gut, freezing over his lungs. It feels like the only thing holding him together as the earthquake within him grows stronger. 

Brian crouches next to him, but he hesitates to get too close. His hand hovers in the air between them, wondering if reaching out to comfort him would be seriously overstepping a boundary. As he waits there, Tim’s eyes travel across the ground, skating over the details of the yard, searching for anything else to focus on besides his own guilt. His eyes land on Brian’s shoes and travel up his jeans to his waist. His t-shirt bunches up around his waist as he crouches on the stairs, and Tim notices a small strip of skin where the hem of his shirt and the top of his waistband separate. At first he doesn't realize anything is wrong, but after a second he starts seeing patches of color where they're not supposed to be. 

“Wh-...what is that?” he breathes. 

“What is what?” Brian asks. 

“Turn around,” Tim says, reaching towards him. Brian doesn't argue, even as Tim slides his fingers under his shirt and lifts the fabric up. 

Red. Raw and angry in a huge patch up his entire back. Spots along his spine and shoulders give way to dark purple, even black, along the highest curves of his back, like a map of a sinking mountain range. The skin looks like it should be tender and inflamed, even hot to the touch, but as Tim rests his hand against Brian’s back, it feels cool and smooth. It’s as if the injury has fused with the skin, becoming more of a birthmark than a bruise. 

“Oh god,” Tim breathes. 

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” Brian murmurs. 

Tim releases his shirt and moves back. 

“I...yeah,” he says, “I didn’t hurt you or anything, did I?” 

“No,” Brian says, “Whatever’s back there, I can’t feel it.” 

He turns and sits back against the stairs. He looks over at Tim, his brow furrowed. 

“Listen, what happened wasn’t your fault,” he says, “Yeah, I knew you were trying to hurt me - you had every right to - but I wasn’t afraid of that. I chose to let go. It wasn’t because of you, Tim.” 

The statement catches Tim off guard. The ice in the pit of his stomach spreads through his limbs, and he has to look away. He looks out towards the neighbor’s house as the sun peeks over the roof. The sunlight strikes the rainwater still clinging to the patchy grass, and the tiny, green blades seem to sparkle. In the distance, the storm clouds form a dark gray line across the horizon, overshadowed by vibrant streaks of orange and yellow that spread across the sky. Tim takes a deep breath of the slowly warming air and closes his eyes. Though his heart still races, the quaking in his limbs seems to subside. 

“Please just...don’t blame yourself for the things I did,” Brian continues, “For  _ any  _ of the things I did. That includes the things I made  _ you _ do. You’ve suffered enough already.” 

A smile tugs at Tim’s lips as he looks out at the rising sun. 

“That makes two of us.” 


End file.
